Of course there was only one topic of conversation. Wanda still couldn’t understand why her parents had never told her, in all these years. “Why? Why didn’t you . . . ? How could you have . . . ?”
Ruth and Steven tried to explain, taking turns, patiently.
Marie took another roll from the basket, more to have something to do than because she was really hungry.
Ruth suddenly turned on her. “There you sit, gobbling down one roll after another as though nothing at all had happened!” Wanda was in tears, again. “Is it too much to ask that you join in the conversation?”
Marie put down her roll and the honey spoon. “I’m so sorry. I really don’t know what to say. I . . .” Her eyes fell on the cabinet clock behind Steven. “Is it really so late?” She stood up sharply, her chair squeaking across the marble floor. She looked from face to face. “I truly am sorry . . . but if I don’t hurry, I’ll still be in my nightgown when Franco arrives!”
“Oh yes, you run off and have fun!” Ruth yelled after her. “While you’re gone we can clear up the mess you’ve landed us in!”
Marie could hardly wait to get out of the house. She could hardly wait to see Franco. She felt a pang of guilt as she brushed her hair and put on eyeliner. She even applied a little rouge—today was a special day, after all. She plaited her hair into one simple braid and then wound it about the crown of her head. Ruth would call it a frightfully old-fashioned hairstyle, but Marie felt like being a little old-fashioned today.
She spent a little while choosing what to wear. There was only one color for a summer’s day like this—white! Pure, gleaming white. With plenty of ruffles and lace.
When she crept out of the apartment like a thief at one o’clock and went down to the lobby to meet Franco, Marie felt just as romantic as she looked.
“You look like a bride,” Franco whispered when he saw her. “No, even more beautiful than that,” he said in the very next breath. “Like the Virgin Mary!”
More Mary than Virgin, she wanted to say, but she bit back the remark. Franco didn’t like it when women made off-color jokes.
“Thank you so much for the wonderful tiara. It’s far too lavish, though, you really shouldn’t have,” she said instead.
Franco pulled her close. “Too lavish? What else should I buy to grace the head of a queen?”
He kissed her, and she felt weak at the knees. She clung closer to him. How much could she love this man?
From the moment they met, Franco only needed to touch her, and she felt wonderful. He smelled so good, her handsome Italian! Marie found herself wondering again and again what it would be like to lie in his arms. Naked, passionate. Drat it all, she didn’t want him thinking of her as a virgin! She wanted to make love to him with every fiber of her being. The only question was how she could talk him into it. She wasn’t like Sherlain; she couldn’t just drag a man off to bed when she liked the look of him. She couldn’t tell him how much she yearned for him—couldn’t even hint at it. How was she supposed to put it into words? Oh, if only she weren’t so clumsy at these games, if only she knew the rules that men and women played by.
She could only hope that Franco would make the first move, and soon.
Little Italy was festooned with decorations that day, as though the neighborhood wanted to outshine the old homeland across the Atlantic. Mile upon mile of bunting was strung across the streets and thousands of tiny colorful flags fluttered in the breeze. Musicians stood at every street corner, practicing for their moment in the grand parade. Crowds gathered all along Mulberry Street to watch. Excited children wriggled through the barriers that kept spectators on the sidewalk and ran out into the street, and their mothers ran after them to fetch them back. Mamma mia, it didn’t bear thinking about if their bambini ran under the wheels of one of the parade floats!
For a while Marie and Franco let the crowd carry them along, flitting from one distraction to another like butterflies. But the cheering and the throngs all around her began to get on Marie’s nerves and soon she felt her temples throbbing painfully. If only she’d gotten more than a couple of hours’ sleep! She didn’t want to be here in the crowd—she wanted to be alone with Franco, to tell him all about last night, about her hours with the sketchpad.
They eventually sat down for a late lunch at one of the restaurants. Franco ordered a huge dish of spaghetti with meatballs and wine from one of his family estates. Now that they were out of the glaring sun, Marie’s headache subsided and she felt a little better. She raised her glass to Franco and looked into his eyes.